by Dale Brown
“What are we supposed to do, old man?” another man asked.
“Follow your head, follow your heart, and take action,” Buzhazi said. “If it’s the clerics you truly believe have the best interests of the nation in mind, join the insurgency and fight to drive me and my men out of the country. If you believe in the monarchists, join them and create your own insurgency in the name of the Qagev, battling both the Islamists and my soldiers, and bring the monarchy back to power. If you think what I say and do makes sense, put on a uniform, pick up a rifle, and join me. If you don’t want to join anyone, at least keep your damn eyes open and when you see an attack against your family or your neighbors, take action…any action. Fight, inform, assist, protect—do something rather than just stand around and complain about it.”
He scanned their faces once again, letting them look directly into his eyes and he into theirs. Most of them did. He saw some real strength in this bunch, and it gave him hope. They were worth fighting for, he decided. No matter which side they chose, they were the future of this land. “It’s your country, dammit…it’s our country. If it’s not worth fighting for, go somewhere else before you become another casualty.” He fell silent, letting his words sink in; then: “Now I need your help policing this crime scene. My soldiers will set up a perimeter and secure the area, but I need some of you to help the rescuers recover the victims and the police gather evidence and interview witnesses. Who will help?”
The crowd paused, waiting for someone to move first. Then the first young man stepped forward and said to Buzhazi, “Not for you, Emperor. You think you are any different than the insurgents roaming the streets? You’re worse. You’re nothing but a pretentious old man with a gun. That doesn’t make you right.” And he turned and walked away, followed by the rest.
“Shit, I thought I had gotten through to them,” Buzhazi said to Colonel Rahmati.
“They’re just a bunch of losers, sir,” the brigade commander said. “You asked what they’re doing out here on the streets? They’re stirring up trouble, that’s all. For all we know, they are the ones who blew up that gas station. How do we know they’re not insurgents?”
“They are insurgents, Mostafa,” Buzhazi said.
Rahmati looked stunned. “They…are? How do you know…I mean, we should arrest all of them right now!”
“They’re insurgents, but not Islamists,” Buzhazi said. “If I had a choice as to which I’d want out on the streets right now, it’s definitely them. I still think they’ll help, but not the way I might want them to.” He looked in the direction of the still-burning gasoline station to the remnants of a smoldering delivery truck that had been blown several dozen meters across the street. “Stay here and keep your weapons out of sight. Get the perimeter set up. I want no more than two soldiers positioned at any intersection, and they should be stationed on opposite corners, not together.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because if there are more, informants will not approach them—and we need information, fast,” Buzhazi said. He started walking toward the smoking truck. Rahmati started to follow, not wanting to appear any more frightened than he was already, but Buzhazi turned and growled, “I said stay here and get that perimeter set up.” Rahmati was only too glad to comply.
A fire truck had approached the burning hulk and two very young-looking firefighters—probably children of dead or injured real firemen, a common practice in this part of the world—started to fight the fire, using a weak stream of water from the old surplus fire truck. It was going to be a long and smoky job. Buzhazi stepped around the fire truck, just far enough from the smoke so he wouldn’t be choked by it, but was mostly screened from view. Now that the cleanup job had started, the crowds had started to disperse. Another, larger fire crew was attacking the blaze at the gas station itself, which was still very hot and fierce, rapidly driving huge columns of black smoke skyward. It was unbelievable to Buzhazi that the flames seemed to drink in even that huge volume of water—the fire was so intense that the fire actually seemed to—
“Quite a speech back there, General,” he heard a voice say behind him.
Buzhazi nodded and smiled—he had guessed correctly. He turned and nodded formally to Her Highness Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the heir presumptive of the Peacock Throne of Persia. He glanced behind the young woman and spotted Captain Mara Saidi, one of Azar’s royal bodyguards, standing discreetly near a lamppost, expertly blending in with the chaos around them. Her jacket was open and her hands clasped before her, obviously shielding a weapon from sight. “I thought I saw the captain there in the crowd, and I knew you’d be nearby. I assume the major is nearby with a sniper rifle or RPG, correct?”
“I believe he’s armed with both weapons today—you know how he likes to come prepared,” Azar said, bowing in return, not bothering to point out her chief of internal security Parviz Najar’s hiding place—just in case Buzhazi’s little rendezvous here was really a trap. She couldn’t afford to trust this man—alliances changed so quickly in Persia. “I have promoted Najar to lieutenant colonel and Saidi to major for their bravery in getting me out of America and back home.”
Buzhazi nodded approvingly. Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the youngest daughter of the pretender to the Peacock Throne, Mohammed Hassan Qagev—still missing since the beginning of Buzhazi’s coup against the theocratic regime of Iran—had just turned seventeen years old, but she had the self-confidence of an adult twice her age, not to mention the courage, martial skills, and tactical foresight of an infantry company commander. She was also turning into a woman very nicely, Buzhazi couldn’t help but notice, with long shiny black hair, graceful curves starting to bud on her slender figure, and dark, dancing, almost mischievous eyes. Her arms and legs were covered but with a white blouse and “chocolate chip” desert fatigue trousers, not a burka, to protect herself from the sun; her head was covered but with a TeamMelli World Cup Football team “doo-rag,” not a hijab.
But his eyes were also automatically drawn to her hands. Every other generation of men of the Qagev dynasty—possibly the women too, but they were probably discarded as newborns rather than have them grow up with any sort of deficiency—had suffered from a genetic defect called bilateral hypoplastic thumb, or missing a thumb on both hands. She had pollicization surgery as a young child, which makes the index fingers function as thumbs, and left her with only four fingers on both hands.
But rather than becoming a handicap, Azar had made the deformity a source of strength, toughening her up beginning at a very young age. She had more than made up for her perceived deficiency: rumor was that she could outshoot most men twice her age and was an accomplished pianist and martial artist. Azar reportedly rarely wore gloves, letting others see her hands both as a symbol of her legacy and as a distraction to her adversaries.
Azar had secretly lived in the United States of America since she was two years old, under the protection of her bodyguards Najar and Saidi, who posed as her parents, separated from her real parents for security reasons, who had also lived in hiding as guests of the U.S. Department of State. When Buzhazi’s coup erupted, the Qagevs immediately activated their war council and headed back to Iran. The king and queen—who were supposed to be in hiding yet ran a Web site, regularly appeared in the media blasting the theocratic regime in Iran, and openly vowing to someday return and take control of the country—were still missing and presumed killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps or al-Quds terrorist forces, with the help of the Russians and Turkmenis. But Azar did make it into Iran, using her wits, natural-born leadership skills—and a lot of help from the American Battle Force and a small army of armored commandos—and joined up with the royal war council and their thousands of jubilant followers.
“I’m impressed, Highness,” Buzhazi said, taking off his helmet and pouring a bit of water on his face before taking a deep drink. “I was looking specifically for you, but you blended into the crowd perfectly. Obviously the others had no idea who you were, because no one tried to form
a defensive shield around you when I approached. You hid your mun well.”
“I’ve been hanging around the city trying to listen to these young people to find out what they want and what they expect,” Azar said. Her American accent was still thick, making her Farsi hard to understand. She removed the Iranian national soccer team headband to reveal the long waist-length ponytail, the mun, typical of Persian royalty for centuries. She shook her hair, glad to be free from the self-imposed but traditional bonds. Major Saidi, a horrified look on her face, stepped toward her, silently urging her to hide her mun before anyone on the streets noticed. Azar rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and tied the ponytail up again under the doo-rag. “They know me as one of the displaced, that’s all—like them.”
“Except with a hundred armed bodyguards, a council of war, a secret war chest bigger than the gross national product of most of central Asia, and several hundred thousand followers who would gladly step in front of a line of machine guns to see you back on the Takht-e-Tavous, the Peacock Throne.”
“I’d trade all that I control to convince you and your brigades to join me, Hesarak,” she said. “My followers are loyal and dedicated, but we are still far too few, and my followers are loyalists, not fighters.”
“What do you think is the difference between a so-called loyalist and a soldier, Highness?” Buzhazi asked. “When your country’s in danger, there is no difference. In times of war, citizens become fighters, or they become slaves.”
“They need a general…they need you.”
“They need a leader, Highness, and that person is you,” Buzhazi said. “If half your loyalists are as smart, fearless, and daring as that bunch that you were hanging around with back there, they can easily take control of this country.”
“They won’t follow a girl.”
“Probably not…but they’ll follow a leader.”
“I want you to lead them.”
“I’m not taking sides here, Highness—I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi said. “I’m here because the Pasdaran and the insurgents they sponsor are still a threat to this country, and I will hunt them down until every last one of them is dead. But I’m not going to be the president. John Alton said, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ I know my power comes from my army, and I don’t want the people to be ruled by its military. It should be the other way around.”
“If you won’t be their president, be their general,” Azar said. “Lead your army under the Qagev banner, train our loyalists, draft more fighters from the civilian population, and let us put our nation back together.”
Buzhazi looked seriously at the young woman. “What of your parents, Highness?” he asked.
Azar swallowed at the unexpected question, but the steel quickly returned to her eyes. “Still no word, General,” she replied firmly. “They are alive—I know it.”
“Of course, Highness,” Buzhazi said softly. “I have heard your council of war won’t approve of you leading your forces until you reach the age of majority.”
Azar sneered and shook her head. “The age of majority was fourteen for centuries—Alexander was fourteen when he led his first army into battle,” she spat. “When projectile warfare became more advanced and weapons and armor got thicker and heavier, the age of majority—the word comes from majour, the leader of a regiment—was raised to eighteen because anyone younger could not lift a sword or wear the armor. What relevance does that have in today’s world? Nowadays a five-year-old can use a computer, read a map, talk on a radio, and understand patterns and trends. But my esteemed council of stuffed-shirt old men and cluck-clucking old women won’t let anyone younger than eighteen lead the army—especially one that is female.”
“I recommend someone get your battalion commanders together, nominate a commander, get it approved by your war council, and get organized…soon,” Buzhazi warned. “Your raids are completely uncoordinated and don’t seem to have any purpose other than random killings and mayhem that keep the population on edge.”
“I’ve already said that to the council, but they’re not listening to a little girl,” Azar complained. “I’m just a figurehead, a symbol. They would rather quibble over who has seniority, who has more followers, or who can bring in more recruits or cash. All they want out of me is a male heir. Without a king, the council will make no decisions.”
“Then be the Malika.”
“I don’t like being called ‘Queen,’ General, and you know it, I’m sure,” Azar said hotly. “My parents are not dead.” She said those last words angrily, defiantly, as if attempting to convince herself as well as the general.
“It’s been almost two years since they’ve disappeared, Highness—how much longer are you going to wait? Until you turn eighteen? Where will Persia be in fifteen months? Or until a rival dynasty asserts its claim to the Peacock Throne, or some strongman takes over and has all the Qagevs back on the run?”
Obviously Azar had asked herself all these questions already, because it pained her that she didn’t have any answers. “I know, General, I know,” she said in a tiny voice, the saddest one he had ever heard her use. “That’s why I need you to go before the council of war, join us, take command of our loyalists, and unite the anti-Islamist forces against Mohtaz and his bloodthirsty jihadis. You are the most powerful man in Persia. They would not hesitate to approve.”
“I’m not sure if I’m ready to be the commanding general in a monarchist army, Highness,” Buzhazi said. “I need to know what the Qagev stand for before I’ll throw my support behind them.” He looked at Azar somberly. “And until your parents appear, or until you turn eighteen—maybe not even then—the council of war speaks for the Qagev…”
“And they cannot even decide if the royal flag should be raised before or after morning prayers,” Azar said disgustedly. “They argue about court protocol, rank, and petty procedures rather than tactics, strategies, and objectives.”
“And you want me to take my orders from them? No thank you, Highness.”
“But if there was a way to convince them to support you if you announced that you would form a government, Hesarak—”
“I told you, I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi snapped. “I took down the clerics, the corrupt Islamist leadership, and their hired goons the Pasdaran because they are the true obstacles to freedom and law in this country. But may I remind you that we still have a Majlis-i-Shura that we elected that supposedly have the constitutional authority to take control and form a representative government? Where are they? Hiding, that’s what. They’re afraid they’ll be targeted for assassination if they poke their little heads out, so they’d rather watch in their comfortable villas with their bodyguards surrounding them while their country tears itself apart.”
“So it sounds like you just want someone to ask you to help them, is that it, General? You crave the honor and respect of having a politician or princess beg for help?”
“What I crave, Highness, is for the persons who supposedly lead this country to get off their fat asses and lead,” Buzhazi said hotly. “Until the Majlis, your so-called war council, or someone else decides it has the stomach to squash the Islamist insurgency, take charge, and form a government, I’ll keep doing what I do best—hunting down and killing as many of the enemies of Persia as I can to save innocent lives. At least I have an objective.”
“My followers share your vision, General…”
“Then prove it. Help me do my job until you can talk some sense into your war council.”
Azar wanted to argue, for her people and their struggle as well as for her own legitimacy, but she knew she had run out of answers. Buzhazi was right: they had the will to resist the Islamists, but they just couldn’t get the job done. She nodded resignedly. “All right, General, I’m listening. How can we help you?”
“Tell your loyalists to join my army and pledge to follow my orders for two years. I’ll train and equip them. After two years t
hey are free to return to you, with all the equipment and weapons they can carry on their backs.”
Azar’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “A very generous offer.”
“But they must swear during their two-year enlistment to obey my commands and fight for me, all the way and then some, upon penalty of death—not by any war council, court, or tribunal, but by me. If they are caught passing information to anyone outside my ranks, including you, they’ll die in humiliation and disgrace.”
Azar nodded. “What else?”
“If they will not join my army, they must agree to pass on clear, timely, and actionable information to me, on a constant basis or on demand, and to support my army with everything they have to give—food, clothing, shelter, water, money, supplies, anything,” Buzhazi went on. “I’ve ordered my security details spread out to make it easier for your people to pass notes, photos, or other information to them, and I will provide you with blind drops and secure voice and e-mail addresses for you to use to leave us information.
“But you must help us, all of you. Your loyalists can follow the Qagev, such as you are, but they will help me, or they will stand out of the way while my men and I fight. They either agree that I fight for Persia and I am deserving of their complete and total support, or they will lay down their weapons and stay off the streets—no more raids or bombings, no more roving gangs, and no more assassinations that serve only to terrorize the innocents and cause the Pasdaran and Islamists to increase their attacks against the civilian population.”
“That will be…difficult,” Azar admitted. “I simply don’t know all of the resistance leaders out there. I frankly doubt if anyone on the council knows all of the cells and their leaders.”
“You attend the war council meetings, don’t you?”
